


A Hitch

by Bodhicitta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 14:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7762237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bodhicitta/pseuds/Bodhicitta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly takes her best mate wedding dress shopping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hitch

**Author's Note:**

> My first drabble - is that the right word? (Maybe it's a bit longer than a drabble).

"Will it do, Sherlock?"

What was happening?  Why was his mouth so dry.  Why did his throat hurt?

"Sherlock?"

I'm just going to look at her one more time.  It's just that, I didn't think...I don't even like...

"SHERLOCK!"

"What?" he yelped, suddenly come back to himself.

"I asked you _'will it do?'_  I'm afraid to look in the mirror.  But if you tell me that it's okay...."

"It's okay.  YES!  It's okay."

"You don't look like it's okay."

"I don't feel well.  It's nothing."  In truth, he felt the very strong need to vomit.

Molly looked down at The Dress and back at him, a question on her lips.  He knew what the question was.  But he couldn't stop the next words from tumbling out.

"Take that off."

Her eyes widened. "Excuse me?" Whispering.

"Take it off.   _Now!_ "

"Why are you barking at me?"

"Because...because you...you shouldn't be wearing that."

Molly's face fell.  "I mean, I know it's not my usual...style, but...it is my wedding!  I need to, what's the word...'elevate.'  No cherry-patterned jumpers...on my wedding day," she joked miserably, trailing off.

Sherlock wasn't looking at her.  Oh, he didn't like it.  Worse.  He hated it.  "Is it...is it that bad?"  She crinkled her forehead expectantly.  

She had worried that taking Sherlock along might be a mistake.  But she trusted him, trusted him to tell the truth, no matter how brutal.  He was incapable of a lie.  Well, unless it was for a case, of course.  The thing with Janine.  And drugging his own parents, and Mycroft, and Mary - which was technically not so much a lie as an assault....

And she had confided this in him - that she was asking him along _because_ of his inability to mince words.  And because of this truth, he held his tongue, because if he began to speak, he would have to tell her the truth about That Dress.

That she looked like the very first day of all creation.

He would have to tell her that when he looked at her, he felt he could breathe, take in a really deep, really cleansing breath, perhaps for the first time.

He would be compelled to admit that when she ran her hand down the side of her body to explore the bias cut of the ivory silk gown, every ache was healed, every sore muscle soothed, every taut nerve relaxed.  He felt like he had just had a hot bath, his feet tucked into warm slippers, a cup of cocoa at his side, and unaccountably, the taste of honey ran down his throat. 

He would have to say, _"When I look at you in that dress, I feel dizzy.  And I can't abide it."_

Mycroft - he was to blame.  He had purchased the dress for her, made it possible for her to choose any designer she wanted, paid the tab in full.  She demurred, and he insisted.  Every time she entered an off the rack store, the sales clerks turned her away.  After the fifth time, she began to get the picture.  One day a limousine picked her up from Bart's, took her to a day spa (thorough scrub-down, massage, mani-pedi), and whisked her to the designer whose name had probably been gleaned from her internet browsing habits.

It wasn't the typical dress showroom.  It was more like an atelier.  Fabric swatches peppered the tables, the walls.  Black and white signed photos of celebrity clients, some of them going back decades (Jackie...Audrey!) hung casually, crookedly, in pride of place.  Actual design work took place here.  A drafting table, a mannequin, three harried assistants.  The dresses had no price tags on them.  And no one brought up the question of payment.  After handing her a glass of champagne, a clerk also handed her an envelope which enclosed a simple handwritten card:

"Thank you for saving his life, Miss Hooper. MH."

She had narrowed the choices down to This Dress, and now, Molly was looking at Sherlock, longing for his verdict.  Well, with her short frame and ordinary looks, she didn't expect to stop traffic, but she had hoped for something.  A smile.  A word of encouragement.  

She was becoming disappointed in him, and it was a disappointment he couldn't bear.  He opened his mouth to say something else, something along the lines of how her sartorial choices shouldn't be influenced by a person such as himself, how women placed too much emphasis on this garment and the entire institution, which really should be chucked on the trash heap of history....

But then she turned to face the mirror, and he couldn't breathe.  He couldn't breathe, because her face was poised on the edge of sadness, and never was there such a gulf between a person's self assessment and reality, because she clearly could not see what he saw, which was a very vision of heaven and how could that be?  How could she not see that she looked like an actual angel?  

And he couldn't breathe, because he had never had so much power than at that moment, and he felt giddy with the power.  Power to crush someone else's dreams down to dust ("it looks fine, Molly.  Can we go back to Bart's?  There's a liver I have to see to"); and also, the power to satisfy his own desires and curiosity (why hadn't he kissed her, why hadn't he let her in, why hadn't he let John go - in his heart, where it mattered - to make a space for someone else.  Why couldn't he grow up)...

He could tell her to take it off.  That he was angry at her - angry that she would think for one moment that he would allow her to wear That Dress to give herself away to another man, a man not even worthy of her.  

And what a dress!  Mycroft had clearly engineered circumstances towards her choosing this one, having thoroughly researched Sherlock's pornography browsing habits.  Oh, that bias cut was a nice touch, Mycroft!  Something so endearing about a gentle, _sweet_ woman ensconced in what amounted to high-fashion lingerie.  The delicious contrast.  The silk flowed down and over her body like milk.  Hugging her almost too tightly, as if it had been made for her...wait.  It had been. The designer had personally cut the pattern, no - the very fabric -  _on her body_.  They sent the dress in pieces to Italy to have the very tasteful embroidery done by hand.  Back again by overnight courier.  

_"Don't even gain five pounds, Miss 'Ooper, because you will bust out of it at the seams!"_

He didn't know where to look. Her chestnut tresses flowed down her exposed back.  Spaghetti straps barely holding the dress on. He thought unaccountably of breaking that strap, the left one, the one skimming her left shoulder, breaking it _with his teeth_.  Her hips a rebuke to his chastity. She was barefoot in the dressing room, because the wedding was to be on a beach, and she wanted to be barefoot.  This, most of all, made him quite annoyed.  It was a taunt, those little pink feet peeking out from beneath the silk pooled on the floor.

But he had to answer her - she was beginning to suspect, and her concern about the dress began to turn to concern for him.  Her eyes were trained on his downcast face.  She cocked her head to one side.  Why was it taking him so long to answer?  

He drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, opened them again. Looking her full in the face. Looking down at his shoes or out the nearest window would not do.  Now, Sherlock!  Now, before the tears over-spilled their banks.  Whose tears?  Mine?  Hers?  Just speak!

"You look _beautiful_ , Molly Hooper."  

And as the tears began to flow unabated down her cheeks, he couldn't help but add, "You will look beautiful... _on your wedding day_."

A wedding day he would do everything in his power to make sure went off without a hitch.  But, if there were to be a hitch, it would be him.  In the depths of his soul, try as he might to restrain himself, he knew that he would be the hitch.  


End file.
